Darkest Before The Dawn
by Kailene
Summary: The frantic, mad dash from the hospital was a blur, the events previous leaving him numb and weary to his very soul; that's when he heard it. "No!" The scream tore from Sam's throat, harsh and anguished. Missing scene from Girl Next Door.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note 1:** This is a missing scene to _Girl Next Door_, what happened between their harrowing escape from Sioux Falls General and their arrival at Rufus' cabin. Or, to be honest, a shameless attempt at some blatant angst and comfort between the boys, with some fatherly Bobby thrown in for good measure.

This is multiple chapters, 90% of which are done, so I'll post new chapters every few days or so.

**Author's Note 2:** This was a collaboration between myself and my best friend Riathe Mai, who I've gotten hopelessly hooked on Supernatural and even tempted her back into writing. Thanks for all the advice, editing, late night texts and channeling your inner Dean when he just wouldn't cooperate...in other words...thanks for everything, sweetie.

**Warning / Spoilers**: Warnings for language, because we are dealing with Dean after all, and know how he can get. Spoilers up through and including _Girl Next Door_.

**Disclaimer: **Sadly, Supernatural and the boys don't belong to me. But, oh, if they did...

**spn**

**Darkest Before the Dawn**

He was numb.

He was still in the same slouched position he had ended up in when he had thrown himself into the passenger seat of the ambulance as Bobby had sped away. He leaned his head against the cool glass of the window, staring at the lights that wavered and danced in his vision from the oncoming passing vehicles.

The last remnants of the adrenaline that had coursed through his system in the dizzying, frantic escape from Sioux Falls General had long since faded.

And he felt nothing.

It wasn't the residual morphine that the doctors had pumped him full of hours earlier. The effects of that left his limbs feeling like leaded weights at his sides and his head fuzzy and disconnected from the rest of his body.

This was not the warm, welcomed friend that he embraced with open arms and savored long after the burn of the whiskey had faded away.

No.

This one was unrelenting; suffocating in its merciless pursuit to pull you down into its dark oblivion. It wrapped around you and grabbed tight, sinking its jagged teeth soul deep and holding on, tearing at you until you shattered.

Hope gone. Faith evaporated. Trust in yourself and in those around you splintered, exploded into tiny fragments and scattered into the wind.

Faith. Hope. Those were never really his things. Too much had happened. He had seen and experienced too much in his short lifetime for those things to hold much importance to him anymore. If they ever did to begin with.

Sammy though, despite all the shit that had been thrown at him, his brother had always been the one to pray, to keep a higher faith.

To hold onto hope of a better…something.

Dean had to wonder if he still felt the same way.

He rolled his head lethargically to the left and he gazed at the unmoving body of his younger brother. His neck felt boneless, and even that small movement was sluggish and uncoordinated.

Strapped down to the gurney, Sam still hadn't moved or regained consciousness since the terrifying seizure he had suffered hours earlier. Dean let out a dispirited sigh as a pang of regret and sadness tugged at his heart. He looked asleep; for the first time since Dean couldn't remember, his younger brother looked peaceful and serene. The lines of pain, of intense concentration that constantly marred his features from the second to second fight to keep the torrent of Hell's memories at bay were gone. He looked younger, and for a moment, Dean saw the wide-eyed innocent kid he had raised instead of the broken man that lay in front of him.

"Hey, you back with us?"

Dean's gaze shifted slowly in response to the gruff inquiry, a voice he had known almost his entire life; it meant safety and security, strength and guidance. The voice of reason, the anchor that kept him grounded while everything around him was in chaos.

Another voice he had thought lost to him forever, another soul he couldn't save; one that, if it had indeed been silenced…well, Dean crushed that thought immediately, not even wanting to imagine what the outcome would have been. He opened his mouth to respond, but all he could do was stare; his brain still processing what his heart had thought lost.

"Dean? You all right, boy?"

"I thought I lost you."

The words were broken, and lost and vulnerable, spoken on a hoarse whisper, but they cut through the dark and silent vehicle like a shotgun blast.

"Gonna take more 'an ick-filled creatures from the black lagoon to take out these old bones," Bobby replied with gruff confidence. "Thought I was being followed," he explained with a shrug. "So I doubled back a couple'a times to make sure. By the time I got back to the house…"

_Yeah, more pleasant memories to add to the iron lockbox and bury deep_, Dean thought.

Bobby had one of the best poker faces around, but Dean saw right through it. He heard the slight quaver in his voice as he spoke, and could see the fear and anguish that still lingered in his eyes at the site that had greeted him in his Salvage Yard.

Emotion welled up in Dean as he recalled the look of shear relief he had seen in Bobby's eyes when he had stepped into his hospital room and found him alive. If seeing him walk through the door, alive and kicking, hadn't been enough to send Dean into shock, then Bobby's uncharacteristic pat on his cheek had just about finished the job.

As much as he teased Sam on being all girly, none of them were big on warm, mushy displays of affection. Their feelings came out in a slap on the back, a playful punch to the shoulder, well-timed jokes and pranks at the others' expense, or the clink of cold bottles after a successful hunt.

Every once in a while though, that just wasn't enough.

In that one gentle touch, Dean had known that Bobby had felt that same heart-stopping panic: the world coming to an abrupt stop at the notion that maybe this time had really been it.

Dean felt the moisture tickle the backs of his eyes. It never failed to touch him just how much the grizzled, ornery, gruff old hunter thought of him and Sam as his own.

And the feelings were overwhelmingly mutual.

Dean swallowed hard against the gut-wrenching panic of the _'what if's'_ that wanted to claw there way out.

_Bobby's alive_. _Sam's_…Dean glanced again at his brother, _Sam's_ _alive, the rest…. _

_The rest_…Dean dropped his head against the back of the seat. His heart sank at the thought of 'the rest': Bobby's house—his _home_—full of memories of happier times, his previous life with Karen; hundred upon hundreds of irreplaceable books and manuscripts lost forever.

"They destroyed everything, Bobby."

"Not everything, son. We all walked away, more like hobbled in your case, but we have all our parts and pieces pretty much intact. We hang back, lick our wounds, and live to fight another day. I'm just glad that you and Sam were able to get outta the house in time."

Dean huffed out an ironical breath. _Certainly didn't have to worry about that last part_, he thought wearily.

"How's the leg?" Bobby asked.

"Still broke," Dean quipped dryly.

"Ha, ha. Don't give up yer' day job, kid. George Carlin you ain't." Bobby shook his head in exasperation. "How 'bout the rest of ya," he asked slowly. "Doin' okay?"

Dean rubbed his hands over his face, taking a deep breath and blowing it out. "I'm fine."

"Uh huh. Right. You're fine, and I'm the Queen of England."

Dean rolled his eyes. "I gotta say Bobby, for an eighty-six year old British chick, you look fantastic."

"Shuddap, ya smartass," Bobby groused. "You really have to get yourself a new Merriam-Webster, you know that? Cuz' you Winchesters really don't know what that word means."

"Bobby." It came out as a tired whine, and Dean really couldn't have cared less. He leaned his head against the cool window, watching the flat landscape as it passed by, hoping that Bobby would drop it.

"Oh, sorry, I forgot. You're _fine_."

Dean closed his eyes for a moment. He was bone tired; his leg throbbed in time with the passing trees. He wanted quiet, he wanted to be left alone, but most of all, he wanted to not deal with anything.

"So that little Thelma and Louise drive you were gonna bring your brother on…?"

_Crap. The message. _Dean could feel Bobby's eyes practically burning a hole in the back of his head as he waited for an explanation. He had forgotten all about it, and it was certainly at the top of his list of items that he didn't want to deal with.

Ever.

"What kind of dumbass do you take me for boy? Checkin' my messages was the first thing I did when I found the Impala abandoned and no sign of you two yahoos."

In terms of pure stubbornness, Bobby Singer stood toe to toe with the Winchesters. Even half drugged and exhausted, Dean knew that there would be no getting out of this conversation.

"Bobby, it was nothing. No big deal. Forget about it," Dean tried casually, downplaying the entire event.

"No big deal!" Bobby bellowed incredulously. "I listen to a message…with you panic-stricken and outta yer mind on the other end, by the way…telling me you're gonna grab yer' brother and drive off a friggin' cliff, and I'm supposed to forget about it? Dean…"

The older Winchester held his tongue, watching as the man he considered his surrogate father took a deep, calming breath before he continued. Dean swallowed against the emotions that choked his throat at the concern he saw in Bobby's eyes.

"Dean," Bobby began again calmly. "I've known you since you was a kid. You don't make idle threats. I wanna know what's goin' on in that crazy ass brain of yer's, so out with it."

Bobby's gentle, caring tone shattered the thin veil of resolve he had built. "Your house was a pile of smoldering cinders, Bobby," Dean said quietly. "We tore the place apart looking for you. You didn't answer your phone. You weren't anywhere. There just wasn't enough of anything left…"

Dean took a shaky breath, his hands fisted in his lap as the memories replayed. "I thought they got you. I couldn't…I didn't…I've lost too many damned people I care about already. I can't handle anymore. Losing you….I can't do this alone. So…yeah, taking a one way drive to nowhere sounded like a great plan."

"Well, boo hoo hoo for you. You think that just because you've had a little bad luck you can just go and cash in your chips? Hell, no! You pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and you start again."

Dean stared slack-jawed, eyes wide in shock at Bobby's outburst; the hopelessness and despondency that had been threatening to overtake him turned to anger at Bobby's seemingly casual dismissal of his emotional admission. "Bobby —"

"I ain't done yet, boy," Bobby barked. "I get it. I do. So you can go ahead and stow all that anger I know you got brewing. This is a thankless, sucky job and one way or another it all ends bloody. But that don't give you any right to just end it, you hear me. Yeah, you've lost a lot of people in your short life, folks that you cared about a lot. But you're forgettin' one important thing, Dean…they cared about you too and would never want that for you."

Bobby held Dean's gaze for a moment before turning his eyes back to the road. "You hearing me?"

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose as he simply nodded his head, unable to get words past the lump of emotions constricting his throat.

"Besides, if your daddy didn't find you in the great beyond first, then Ellen would kick your ass from here to eternity for pulling a stunt like that."

Dean huffed out a laugh. "Between you and me, I think I'm more scared of Ellen."

"Smart boy," Bobby smirked. "You and Sam do a lot of good, Dean. Make a big difference to a lot of people. I know it's hard to see most times, but you do. You remember that hunt a few years back, the one were you turned all Grumpy Old Men on us?"

Dean's brow furrowed as he thought back over the years and the many hunts they had done together. "You mean that poker game we played? That smarmy Irish dude who ended up being a witch?"

"That's the one," Bobby said glancing over momentarily at Dean. "You remember that speech you gave me, right before we left?"

"Yeah, I remember," Dean said quietly.

"That goes both ways, you know. I know I don't say it much, but you two chuckleheads are like sons to me."

"We know, Bobby," Dean said softly, his voice trembling with barely-contained emotion.

"Then you know that's not what I'd ever want. If the end comes, it comes. You don't go speeding up the process. You don't get to check out in a moment of crazed grief. You go on fighting, and you take out the sons of bitches that got me. I don't wanna hear that kind of nonsense again. Understood?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. Besides," Bobby remarked offhandedly, "what do you mean, _you couldn't do this alone_? What do you call the sleeping giant we have back there?"

Dean looked behind him to where Sam lay peacefully unaware. It was hard to believe that just a few short hours ago…was it only hours ago? It felt like days had passed since Dean had followed Sam to that warehouse.

"Sam's…God, Bobby…He's…" Dean broke off with a wet, desperate, slightly manic laugh.

"What? What about Sam?"

Dean glanced over at Bobby and the look he met said it all; he had officially freaked Bobby out.

_Hey, I should get a medal for being able to do that_, Dean thought. He shook his head a bit to clear it. "I think Sammy has left the building. No lights on. No forwarding address."

"What the _hell_ are you talking about? You're making less sense than usual, boy."

"I'm saying; you didn't have to worry about Sam and me getting out of the house before it went up, cuz' Sam was long gone way before that."

He didn't mean to raise his voice at Bobby like that. He just couldn't...he just didn't want to...The memory played over in his mind, each time a little different. He squeezed his eyes shut at the what ifs…_what if_ it had taken him longer to get there; _what if_ he hadn't gotten there in time; _what if_ he hadn't been able to talk Sam down, to convince him that he was real and that everything Sam had thought real prior to him showing up was not real?

"Fer cryin' out loud, Dean," Bobby urged. "No story should take longer in the tellin' 'an it did in the doin'. Spit it out already."

"Bobby," Dean warned.

Bobby spared him a quick glance than looked back at the road. Minutes passed in silence, and Dean hoped that meant Bobby was going to drop the subject.

Bobby sighed.

Apparently, not.

"Dean," he said, and his voice was calm, gentle even. "Everything we have is in this here rig. You, me, and Sleeping Beauty, back there. Now, I know you think it's your job to protect him...from the world, from himself, whatever. But, you ain't on your A game...hell, you ain't even on your Z game at the moment."

"Freakin' morphine," Dean cursed under his breath. "Never again."

"You ain't in this alone, ya hear?" Bobby continued, his voice talking on a quality Dean didn't know if he'd ever heard him use. It was almost...fatherly. "You don't gotta do everything yourself. But I can't help you help him if I don't know what needs doin' and what needs watchin' out for. Kapeesh?"

Dean felt tears burn behind his eyes and a pressure build in his throat. For a second he didn't dare speak, not sure what would actually come out if he tried; swears or sobs.

Either was possible, but it was the latter he feared more than the former. If he let himself start, he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop.

He looked at Bobby, but Bobby kept his eyes on the road; probably trying to give Dean a measure of privacy in which to compose himself. Dean took a slow, deep breath, held it for a second, and then let it out.

"When I got back to the house after checking out the school, Sam was gone. No note. No...Nothing. You gave me guff for dickin' with his phone, but...God, Bobby, if I hadn't...I…ah, I tracked him to some old, abandoned warehouse off I-91."

"What the hell was he doin' there," Bobby asked, his voice still quiet, still gentle despite the words.

Dean couldn't help the laugh that gasped out of him. "Apparently, there was something there that needed checking out." Bobby's head snapped over to him, but Dean raised his hand, forestalling him.

"That ain't the worst of it, Bobby. When I got there, I walked in on him yelling at nothing and waving his gun around. He didn't know who I was. Bobby, he thought he'd gone there with me. He thought that _I'd_ brought him there to...to...God knows what."

Dean's vision went blurry and he felt the tears start to run down his face. Now that the flood gates were open, though, he couldn't hold back the words.

"Bobby, he didn't know if I was real or if I was the hallucination; and I gotta tell you, I didn't know who he was gonna shoot first; me, whoever the hell he was seeing standing next to him—"

As if Dean didn't know exactly who Sam had seen standing next to him. "—or himself. I mean, what the hell, Bobby. He thought he was with _me_. He drove himself there. I don't even wanna think how the hell he managed that. He thought he was with me and that _I'd_ driven us there. How the hell do I fight that, Bobby? What the hell am I supposed to do about that?"

"What the hell are _we_ gonna do about it, Dean," Bobby corrected.

Anger flared but then it ran right out of him. It was as though he was filled with holes, and everything was just draining right out of him.

Like blood from an open wound.

He slumped back in his seat, sore and tired...so very tired.

"Did ya have to knock him out to get him out of there?" Bobby asked then.

"What? No. I...I got through to him. It took some doing, and I had to hurt him to do it, but..."

"That when I called?"

"Yeah. He was himself again, more or less." Dean closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Bobby?"

"Yeah, son."

"What if this is the best we can hope for? What if he's never the same?"

"Of course he's never gonna be the same, Dean,"

Dean snorted out a bitter laugh. "If you're tryin' to make me feel better, Bobby, you're doin' a crappy job."

"Dean, the boy was in hell for a hun—"

"Don't. Don't say it, Bobby," Dean bit out angrily. "I know exactly how long it was. I counted every damn second of every damn day that I left him there. I shoulda' got him out sooner—better yet, I shouldn't've let him do in the first place."

"Wasn't yer' place to decide, son," Bobby said lightly. "He made his decision, accepted what he had to do."

"Are you blaming him, Bobby?" Dean shouted incredulously, pushing himself over in the seat, his anger bringing him as close to the older man as he could get.

"Don't you take that tone with me boy," Bobby cautioned, "and don't go puttin' words in my mouth, neither. Of course, I don't blame him. Now stand down, sit yer' ass back in that seat and listen before you go shootin' first and never askin' questions."

Dean eyed him for a moment, the rage slowly simmering to a dull boil; and really, it wasn't Bobby he was angry at, he just happened to be a convenient target. The intangible…_everything_…that had caused all of this chaos, was just so far out of his reach.

"Fine." He scrubbed his hands down his face, once again slouching down in the seat. "Your right, I'm sorry. It's just been...ah—"

"Don't worry 'bout it. We're good." Bobby assured him. "I'm just sayin', you can't play the blame game. Chewin' over the '_what if's_' and the '_should'ves_' is gonna kill you. It's done and over, the damage has been done. Now we fix him."

"I don't think there's any fixin' this," Dean sighed resignedly.

"You're right, there ain't."

"Bobby," Dean replied tiredly. "I'm not up for twenty questions. In case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly my usual awe-inspiring self. So, less figurative and more literal."

"Alright, then. You didn't exactly come back from your tour down under in pristine condition either."

Dean hesitated, the look on Bobby's face all but daring him to deny it. "No. You're right, I didn't. But my time in the hotbox was Disneyland compared to what we both know he must've endured."

Bobby shook his head in grim agreement. "Dean, we're gonna do everything in our power to help him; turn over every book, every tome until we find something that helps.

"But what he needs-what's really gonna help him-isn't in some archiac spell, or hoodoo remedy, some head shrink, or any nonsense like that. It's what I know finally got through to Sam in that warehouse; his big brother. Plain and simple, and not because you're the only one on this dusbowl who has even the slightest inkling of what he might've gone through."

Bobby turned his attention from the road to glance at Dean. "You know how he beat the Devil in Stull?"

The images of that fateful day came slamming back into Dean's mind; of watching Sam, arms outstretched, falling away from him forever into the cold, black abyss of Hell. "Cause he's strong, Bobby," he said with pride in his voice. "Stronger and tougher than we've ever given him credit for."

"Yeah, he is. When that wall shattered, his mind must've been in a worse mess than Humpty Dumpty. Yet he was able to put himself back together enough to make the drive to find us, and the sense about him to try and take out—"

Dean was grateful that Bobby stopped before the name was said. Whether that was for his sake or his own, it didn't matter, he was thankful just the same. He wasn't prepared to deal with any of the emotions that the ex-angel, former best-friend-honorary-brother invoked.

"To back us up," Bobby provided instead. "Sam fights with everything he has, doesn't give one inch for something he believes in; but that's only one part, and not even the biggest, you know."

Dean looked at Bobby, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Bobby shook his head in fond exasperation. "You, ya idjit. That strength, that will power to beat that son-of-a-bitch, he was able to find that cuz' he knew you had his back.

"You two, you're a matched set. Sure, you've had some knock-down, drag-out fights in your time, but when one of ya's screwed six ways to Sunday and doesn't know which way is up anymore, the other one of you is right there, lendin' strength and a shoulder. Doin' whatever needs to be done, 'till you have yer feet back under ya. Sure, it'll be rough for a while, but you'll both settle in, find that 'Winchester way' to make it all work out."

Bobby glanced quickly at Dean with a smile, "Besides, that brother of yours has never been one to take being told he couldn't do something. He beat the devil once, Dean, you see, he'll do it again. If for no other reason than to stick it to all those Angel and Demons who think they can keep screwing with you two and getting' away with it."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note 1**:

So this is all Kailene's fault. She got me hooked on this series in June, handing me five season's worth of box sets and instructing me to catch up by the premier of season seven because she was tired of suffering alone. Besides, I was editing her stories and I had no clue what was going on. I think she was sick of all my questions. Gauntlet thrown, I had to accept. She is my best friend, after all, and that's what best friends do—even when the first season scared me stupid and I had to watch the episodes through my fingers with every light in the house on. But, hey, those Winchester boys are _so_ fine; and _so_ worth enduring bugs and scary-ass clowns and creepy, jerky-motion ghosts who lurk in mirrors. Mission accomplished, even cramming in all of season six in only a few days, I was all caught up by the premier. Who needs to sleep anyway? Then Kailene told me that she was bouncing around ideas to fill in those Missing Three Weeks. Little did I realize that she was tossing down another challenge? Help her write it. Gauntlet thrown, I had to accept.

So, Kailene, thank you for inviting me to play in your sandbox—I'm honored—and for getting me hopelessly—okay, obsessively—hooked on this show; and thank you for helping me coax my battered and traumatized muse out of hiding. I don't know what I'd do without you.~~~Riathe Mai

Chapter 2 is written in 3rd person, but in Dean's 'voice', because he's just too fun to write. Warnings for language, because…well…it's Dean. All errors and out of character behavior are my fault entirely.

spn

Dean wasn't sure at what point he'd dozed off. He remembered the mad dash out of Ooze-Falls General Hospital-and wasn't that just about the best-damned timed and executed rescue he'd ever seen. He remembered Bobby, freaking alive and going all Dr. Phil on his drugged up ass. If Dean wasn't so damned happy and relieved and...God! Bobby was alive! Maybe he'd have to let that feel-fest ambush slide, just this once. Provided Bobby never brought it up again. Sam would never let him live it-

"Sam!" Dean came fully awake into a small shit storm.

"No shit, Sherlock!" Bobby yelled.

Dean's immediate world jerked violently beneath him as the ambulance bounced over the uneven ground. Tree branches flew by the windows much closer than they should have been on the interstate. The vehicle bounced again and Bobby swore. Dean grabbed the courtesy bar above his head with one hand and the dashboard in front of him with the other.

"What the hell-"

"Service road!" Bobby said as though that explained anything at all.

"What?"

"NO!"

It took Dean a second to realize that that gut-wrenching cry hadn't come from Bobby. That left only one other source. Heart in his throat, he spun around in the seat. Sam thrashed violently on the gurney. His head flew back and another of those terrible cries came from his throat, desperate, frightened, and angry.

"Sammy!" Dean tried to climb out of his seat to get to him, but his seat belt threw him back into the seat. Swearing, he fumbled with the clasp and then to untangle himself from the strap. Finally free, he started to pull himself through the narrow space between the seats.

"Siddown, ya damn idjit!" Bobby snapped, taking his eyes off the road long enough to push Dean back into his seat. "Or didja forget yer damn leg is in a cast up to yer ass?"

The ambulance bounced and swerved again slamming Dean back against the door with an audible impact of bone on glass. "Son of a bitch, Bobby. Ain't one cracked head in this group enough for you?"

"Then stay put for another damned minute, will ya."

Sam yelled again, the words garbled but sounding way too much like 'get off me' for Dean's comfort. He bucked up in the gurney, his head and shoulders coming up off the mattress as though he were trying to get off of the stretcher. Only the straps kept him from escaping.

"Let me go!"

"Sammy!" Dean called out again, trying to reach back to touch his brother.

"NO!"

The word tore out of Sam's throat, harsh and anguished. Tortured. Hell-filled and agonized; the sound was like a punch to the gut, stunning Dean and stealing his breath. He knew that scream. He'd screamed it for years and years, until his vocal cords had blistered and his throat had filled with blood. He'd screamed it until he could scream it no more and he'd accepted their offer, stepped off that rack, and taken up the whip and flail himself. Then, he'd listened to it and hundreds…thousands…countless others just like it. Endless and terrible and all at his hands.

The ambulance bucked again. Something banged against the undercarriage, hard, and Bobby swore inventively. It snapped Dean out of his haze and back to the present, to the immediate. He blinked, then rubbed his hand down his face. Sam thrashed and struggled a mere three feet from where Dean sat. Damn it, he needed to get back there!

"Bobby!"

Just then, the ambulance skidded to a stop. "Go!" Bobby instructed as he threw the gear into park and shut off the engine. Dean had his door open and his body half out of the seat before he remembered his gimp leg. He caught himself by the door, narrowly saving himself from another unceremonious face plant on the ground.

Bobby already had the back door open by the time Dean managed to hobble back there, but he merely stood aside while Dean pulled himself up into the back by shear stubborn will alone.

Sam's head tossed side to side. His eyes were closed and creased deeply in the corners. His lashes were spiked with moisture, but no tears traced down his cheeks. His breath was fast and harsh, hissing between his clenched teeth and raking across his abraded throat.

Dean was no doctor, but he knew this wasn't a seizure. He almost wished it were. This was worse…so much worse. This was a nightmare, and he didn't need to be a psychic to know what it was about.

_I should have known,_ he thought for the umpteenth time. _I should have known you weren't all here. I should have gotten you out of there long before…_

He wasn't going there. He just wasn't. Ruthlessly shoving the thought aside, he reached out to grab Sam's shoulder to wake him. As soon as his hand touched him, though, Sam screamed again.

Dean knew this scream, too. He'd listened to for days when they'd locked Sam in Bobby's panic room to purge him of the demon blood: angry, desperate, despaired, frightened. God help him, but he was almost relieved.

Then, Dean had been useless, forced to stand outside that iron door and just listen to his brother do battle, unable to so much as touch him to let him know he was near. Now, he'd be damned twice over before he'd let Sam think he had to fight this alone.

He grabbed Sam's arm and gave him a careful but firm shake. "Sammy! Wake up!" he said forcefully.

Sam shook his head. A small sound escaped his throat, part gasp, part sob, but all negation. _That's right, Sammy,_ Dean thought. _You fight that bastard. Don't give him a freaking inch._

Unfortunately, Dean realized quickly, Sam fighting his inner demons meant Sam fighting Dean, because clearly they were one in the same to Sam at that moment.

And, Sam could be one strong son of a bitch when he thought he needed to be.

Sam surged up against the straps pinning his chest and legs to the gurney. How they didn't snap was anyone's guess. Sam's face was flushed a dangerous tone, beads of sweat starting to glisten on his skin. The veins in his temple stood out, thick and engorged. The cords of his neck strained and pulled. If he still had been hooked up to the monitors from the hospital, they'd have been ringing enough to wake the dead.

"Damn it, Sam. Ya gotta wake up. Come on, Sammy." Dean shook him again, trying not to jar his head in the process.

"No! Get off me!"

"It's the straps," Dean said, not necessarily to Bobby. "If I take them off..."

"You think he's hard t'hold down, now?" Bobby remarked.

It was exactly what Dean had been thinking. They were the only thing keeping Sam on that gurney. The way he was struggling, he'd have knocked Dean on his ass by now if he could have gotten an arm free.

Dean released Sam's arm and took his too-warm face in both hands. He leaned in close-hoping that Sam didn't suddenly lunge up and head-butt him in the nose with all his thrashing and carrying on.

"Sam!" he yelled. He'd been going for that 'Dad means business' tone of voice that had always succeeded in stopping them both in their tracks. What came out, though, sounded so much more desperate and scared. _Damned morphine,_ he thought and opened his mouth to try it again.

Sam suddenly gasped and went rigid beneath Dean's hands. His eyes flew open. They locked on Dean's, wide and devoid of sense or sanity. If Dean had been a more fanciful man, he'd have sworn he'd seen the flames of hellfire swirling in their hazel depths.

Sensing that Sam was about to look away, Dean quickly called out to him again, "Sam! You're safe."

Sam blinked, and sense slowly surfaced. "Dean?"

"Yeah, it's me, big guy. You awake?"

Sam winced slightly. "What?" His gaze drifted aside. He would have turned his head, but Dean still held him, hovering a foot above him and willing Sam to look at him with something other than confusion and doubt.

"Come on, Sammy," he said. "Show me some of that intelligence that snowed a free ride outta Stanford."

Sam blinked, once, and then again. "Where am...w-what hap..."

Dean felt Sam's muscles bunch under his hand, but he didn't react fast enough. Sam lifted his arm, and met with the resistance of the gurney strap.

His gaze shot back to Dean's, and what little sanity had drifted into his eyes, fled. Distrust was all that remained.

"No." Sam started to struggle for real and it was all Dean could do to keep his balance. He wasn't going to let go, though. Not even if Sam pulled him right off his perch.

"Let me go, damn you," Sam snarled, trying to free his arms from under the straps.

"Sam, stop it. Look at me!" Dean yelled right into Sam's face. "It's me."

"No. You're not real. You're…"

"Yes, I am."

"No. No."

"Yes!" Dean yelled, punctuating it with a gentle shake of Sam's head. "Look at me, Sammy. Please. Come on, we already played this game, remember? In the warehouse after you went all walkabout through Wigoutland. Remember? No white rabbits, you said."

Sam's struggles grew weaker. Dean didn't think it was because he was getting through to him. Sam was tiring. His heart was racing, the pulse pounding against the side of Dean's hand where it rested against Sam's neck. If he didn't find some way to calm him down and soon...he wasn't going to go there, either.

"You were hurt, remember? In Bobby's lot. The leviamawhatchit. He tire-ironed you one good. Knocked you out cold. Broke my freaking leg, for crying out loud."

Sam went still, but his breathing was still too fast. His eyes were still too wild.

"Sammy, come on. It's me. You're safe. You hear me? You're on a stretcher in an ambulance. That's why, the straps. We were at the hospital...the one where the Ooze Patrol had set up residency. Bobby saved our bacon, but good."

Sam gasped. "B-Bobby?"

"Right here, son," Bobby said from where he still stood by the back door. "You done scaring the bejeesus outta us, ya think?"

Sam looked in the direction of Bobby's voice, but Dean doubted he could see him worth a damn. "Bobby? He's not..."

"No, Sam," Dean said softly. Sam looked back at him, still unsure but maybe, just maybe willing to take Dean's word for something. "He ain't dead."

"You think we can button this up any time soon?" Bobby said then. "We still gotta put a slew a'miles behind us before we can ditch his ride and find us another. An' the pickin's are gonna be slim of vehicles that are gonna hold that there bed."

"Yeah, well he ain't getting outta this 'there' bed until I know he ain't gonna dump his grey matter out of his ears if he stands up," Dean remarked. He gave Sam a wink. "Sorry, there, big guy. But you've had just one too many hits with the snake." At Sam's blank expression, Dean sighed. He brought up one hand and curled it into a fist, pantomiming a striking cobra. "Come on, Sam. Aladdin? Get it?"

Sam suddenly relaxed under Dean's hand. The last remnants of doubt faded, and a look of exhausted relief eased the stress from his flushed face. His eyes drifted closed, a small smile pulling the corner of his lips. "Aladdin." The tiniest chuckle escaped him, barely more than an exhale, really. "It must be you."

There was an insult in there. Dean just knew it, and wasn't it just like Sam to be a snarky bitch even with a few marbles rattling around his junk drawer. Somehow, Dean didn't care. "Oh yeah, I'm just feelin' the love, here," he teased, not that Sam was listening anymore. He'd fallen back asleep. The lines of tension were gone and his features at peace, his breathing slow and even.

Dean gave Sam's shoulder a quick squeeze, then slouched back in the bench. Resting both elbows on his legs, he dropped his forehead into his hand and let out a weary sigh. He turned his head slightly and looked at Bobby out of the corner of his eye. "I hope you gotta plan, Bobby," he said, tired to his very bones. "'Cuz I got a whole lotta jack, with a side order of effin' squat."

Bobby made a face, then shrugged. "First order, we gotta get new wheels. They'll be tracking this wagon, if they ain't already."

"Awesome," Dean uttered. He rubbed his hand down his face, then pushed himself up straight on the bench. "Where the hell are we going to find something that's gonna fit that?" He jerked his chin in the direction of the stretcher in front of him. "'Cuz, I'm not kidding, Bobby. We're not movin' him if…"

"I hear you, son. Don't worry. I gotta few markers I may be able to call in. We ain't sunk yet."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note 1: **After a bit of a revision, chapter 3 is finally done. YAY! It turned out much longer than I intended, there wasn't really a good place to end it and I didn't want to cut anything, so...you guys get an extra long chapter of brotherly togetherness.

The medical terminology, treatments prescribed, and symptoms are all accurate. Well...as accurate as they can be when Googling "severe head trauma" and "intercranial pressure" on the internet. Throw in some medical knowledge gained from watching seasons of ER, personal experience from a horrible bout with Vertigo, and the fact that he's a Winchester...and this is the end result.

I'll throw out another warning for language as well.

**Author's Note 2: **A big thanks to all of you who've reviewed, alerted, and favorited this story. Your words of encourage mean alot to me.

**Author's Note 3:** Extra big thanks goes once again to Riathe Mai for her wonderful ideas, support, neverending english lessons (I promise someday it will all stick) and doing an incredible job at final editing while my little rug rats ran around the house crazy, interrupting us a least a dozen times if not more.

**spn **

Good news. The morphine had run its course and was now out of his system, allowing him to be more alert, awake, and most importantly, in control. '_Damn morphine_,' he thought for the umpteenth time.

Bad news. The morphine had run its course and his leg now felt like someone had jammed a spike through it.

'_Spike. Bone. Hey, same freakin' thing_,' Dean thought as he shifted his weight trying to get comfortable on the low, hard bench. He had chosen to stay in the back of the ambulance after Sam's panicked return to consciousness. He had told Bobby it allowed him more room to stretch his gimp leg out, and Bobby hadn't called him on the utter load of horseshit they both knew it was.

Sam had been silent since his outburst, when exhaustion had pulled him under once again. At first, Dean had been grateful. The one thing his brother needed and deserved more than anything was peaceful rest. But now that he was thinking clearly, snippets of words and conversations about his brother that he had heard in the ambulance and at the hospital had come back to him.

He wasn't so sure anymore that a silent Sam was a good thing.

Dean cleared his throat, glancing once more at his brother before turning towards Bobby and asking the question to which he really didn't want to hear the answer.

"Hey, ah, Bobby?"

Bobby looked up, catching Dean's gaze in the rearview mirror. "Yeah, what is it, Dean?" He kept an even, calm, as close to normal tone to his voice as he could get. The last thing they needed was more drama.

Dean looked once again at Sam and ran his hand wearily across his jaw, garnering his strength, and then just forced the words out. "Uhm… Increased intracranial pressure. Does that mean what I think it means?"

Dread welled up in Bobby as he swung his head around, his eyes immediately going to the unmoving young man still strapped to the gurney. Just once he'd like his boys to catch a break. He didn't think that was asking much after all they'd been through; all they'd sacrificed.

Then again, the powers that be never had been on the Winchester's side.

"Why you asking, boy?" It was a stall, and a pathetic one at that.

"The EMT in the ambulance, he…ah, he was talkin' about it, right after Sam had his seizure; and that doctor chick, she mentioned that he had severe head trauma. He never had that MRI, Bobby. He's been so quiet and still. He's _never_ quiet. He's like a freakin' walking game of Trivial Pursuit, always spouting nonsense about subjects that no one else has ever heard of. He even mumbles in his sleep, for cryin' out loud.

"And unmoving? He doesn't even stop moving when he's asleep, all gangly arms and legs going in every direction. He's like a damn octopus. So, this…this Sleeping Beauty thing he has going on…it ain't good, Bobby."

Bobby gripped the steering wheel tighter, the passing trees and farmland of the unnamed back road in Nowhereville, USA, were a blur as he quickly did a mental scan of everything he knew about head injuries. He was no doctor, and he wasn't about to take any chances with one of his boys, but he had accumulated a vast knowledge of many a subject over the years. '_Jack of all trades, Master of none_' he thought, fit him perfectly.

"Nah, I think it's gonna be awhile yet 'fer he doesn't feel like he's on a tilt-a-whirl, but I think we mighta' dodged a bullet on this one."

"When have we ever _'dodged a bullet'_, Bobby?"

"I know, son," Bobby said sympathetically, not liking the defeat he heard in Dean's voice. "But we've been on the road for hours now. He took that whack to his noggin an hour or two before that, and other than waking up half-crazed from Hell flashbacks, he's been stable.

"No throwin' up, breathin's been good. When he was yellin', his speech wasn't slurred, and once you brought him 'round to the right reality, he was pretty coherent. Considering what the kid's been through lately, I'll take that as a win."

Bobby took his eyes off the road, looking back at Dean and giving him what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

It was never easy on either of the boys when one was injured, but when it was Sam down, well, Dean was worse than a mother bear with her cub. Sam had called his older brother a 'mother hen' on more than one occasion, and the term fit Dean to a tee.

Bobby could clearly see the worry and fear behind Dean's growing frustration at not being able to do anything to help his younger brother. It didn't matter that Sam outweighed and towered above him, he would always be Dean's little brother and his responsibility.

If Sam was out of action, Dean fixed him; somehow, someway he got the job done. Bobby knew how much it was killing him to just sit by and do nothing; that no amount of consoling words would alleviate Dean's anxiety until his brother was back on his own two legs.

"Him being unconscious, well, again, he ain't exactly been on a walk in the park lately," Bobby said, continuing his roadside evaluation. "Kid deserves a little downtime in my book. He's only had the one seizure; and between you, me, and the lamppost, I'd say that was more courtesy of the sonofavbitch that's locked up in the hotbox playing his damn head games than it was brain swelling."

"I'm not taking any chances, Bobby," Dean said quietly.

"And we won't," Bobby said adamantly. "I'll make a few calls; see who I can scare up for some intel. We have a fully stocked rig here, might as well take advantage of it. Maybe there are some things we can do to prevent that from happening and help speed his recovery."

"Yeah, alright. Good. Make some calls, 'cuz all I got is the cut open your skull thing if this goes south."

"The what? What in the blazes are ya talkin' about?"

"You know when they-"

"Ventriculostomy." The quiet, rough voice cut them both off.

"What?"

"Huh?"

"Sammy." The relief in Dean's voice was palpable. He slid down the bench, sitting opposite of Sam and placed his hand on his shoulder. Tired eyes opened and squinted as they surveyed their surroundings.

Dean saw his brother's eyes cloud over in confusion, fear once again beginning to creep in, and he squeezed his shoulder gently, hoping it would be enough to pull him back and ground him in the here and now. "Hey, Sam. Look at me. What did you just say?"

Sam rolled his head slowly towards his brother, groaning in pain that even that small movement had caused. Dean grimaced in sympathy, giving his brother the time he needed, using the moment to check him over.

His eyes were clear, but lined in understandable pain, and Dean let out the breath he had been holding to see that the sheer terror and doubt that had been reflected in them earlier was gone.

The straps holding him safe and secure to the gurney, what Dean knew had sent him back over the edge the last time, didn't seem to be bothering him now. Instead, he seemed content to just lay there.

Sam cleared his throat, rough and dry from hours of disuse; and did his best to open his eyes further, blinking to bring his older brother into better focus.

"Ventriculostomy," he said slowly. "Word ya looking for. When a…a doctor cuts a small hole in your…skull…" He started to raise his hand to point at his head but his hand was trapped. He furrowed his brow, glancing down at the straps, and finished distractedly, "to relieve pressure."

Sam narrowed his eyes and looked back up at his brother. "You come near m'head with any sharp object…"

"Says the man who's gonna pass out the second he's vertical," Dean snarked. He reached over his brother and unclipped the straps holding him down, waiting until Sam had moved his arms before once again tightening the straps across his chest.

"Dean?"

Dean put his hand on Sam's arm, in an attempt to head off the panic he saw building in his brother's eyes. "It's okay, Sammy," he said reassuringly. "Just trying to keep you safe. Wouldn't want you rollin' outta bed." Dean held his breath as Sam looked around at his surroundings, then sighed with relief when Sam seemed to recognize where he was. "I'll give ya your arms free, but that's it. Get comfortable. Until I'm convinced that brain of yours is gonna stay in that gigantic head where it belongs, you're grounded."

Sam's body relaxed, and Dean knew it had more to do with exhaustion and pain than with believing he was right. Either way, it didn't matter. Dean would take the win.

"Only an egghead like you could pull a word like that outta ya ass at a time like this. How'd you know about that crap anyways?" Dean asked, wanting to keep his brother awake for a while longer, but honestly curious about how he knew. It was not like it would be something they ran across in their line of work.

"I, ah, I don' know," Sam said slowly. "Picked it up s'm'where."

Sam's head drifted lazily to the side, and even from where he was sitting, Dean could see his brother's eyes slide to half-mast, unblinking, as he stared at something Dean knew only his brother could see.

It was a look that Dean, frighteningly, was getting to recognize all too well, and he braced himself for another Hell-round. The slow smile that spread across his brother's lips, however, was not even close to what he had been expecting.

'_Hell affected you in many different ways_,' Dean thought. '_But smiling? No friggin' way. Okay, so, if not another Cage match…_' He looked over at his brother, still staring off into Neverland with the same dumb-ass smile…

Dean shook his head, _I'm such an idiot. _

"Ah uh, Sammy. You're not gettin' away that easy." He turned to Bobby, "You see that, Bobby?"

"You take me for a fool, boy? I know better than to side with one of ya when it comes to you Winchesters. I ain't seen nothing"

"Lotta help you are, Bobby." Dean turned back to Sam, crossing his arms across his chest. "Spill, dude. You may be able to get away with blaming that blush you've got going on account of your head getting whacked, but that…that drippy, sappy smile you're sportin'...nuh ah, I want answers.

"Tired, Dean."

"Tired? You've been sleepin' all day," Dean said lightly, tapping his brother's cheek. "Open your eyes and start talking. I need to gauge your mental status."

"Liar." A small smile turned his lips. "Bored. Bobby threatened ya ass…s'ya botherin' me now."

"Was no threat boy, it was a promise," Bobby piped up from the front seat. "Told him if he didn't stop his bitchin' and moanin' I'd toss his broken ass outta the back door and make him walk the rest of the way."

Bobby turned his head, flashing Dean a sly smile before glancing at the top of Sam's head. "Glad to see ya up, son. So to speak, that is."

"Thanks, Bobby," Sam replied quietly.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. What is this, gang up on the gimp day? You," Dean said, pointing to Bobby, "keep your mouth closed. And you, little brother…" Dean leaned back on the bench, hands clasped on his lap and a smirk on his lips, "aren't getting off that easy. There's a juicy story behind that smile you're trying…unsuccessfully, I might add…to hide, and I want the dirt."

Sam huffed out a breath. "Fine. Not much t'tell. Jess…pre-med. Study of th' brain was one of her classes. W's cool." He stretched his body out as much as he could on the gurney, no doubt trying to ease stiff muscles and find a more comfortable position. "I helped 'em with their labs and tests an' stuff. That's all."

"Wait." Dean furrowed his brow as he looked at his brother. "That was plural, as in more than just Jess. Who was the other one? You holdin' out on me, Sammy?"

Sam took a deep breath as he gingerly rolled his head to the side. He squeezed his eyes shut, no doubt riding out a wave of dizziness. "Oh…um…yeah, Becky. Lived with us f'awhile. Pre-med too."

"Wait a minute." Dean sat up quickly. "Becky? As in perky, blonde, blue eyed, petite Becky from St. Louis, Becky?"

Sam raised a curious eyebrow at his brother.

"What? Dude, come on, she was hot."

"She'da eatin' you alive, bro."

Dean grinned at the thought. "So, you're only telling me this _now_ that you lived with not only one hot chick, but _two_? And you played doctor with them!" he said incredulously. "Sammy, you sly dog, you."

Sam's eye's slid shut. "An' you said I had no fun at school."

"Apparently, I stand corrected."

"If you two ladies are done doin' yer nails back there, I got some things we can try for Sam. I called Jodi-"

"Jodi?" Dean inquired in puzzlement.

"Jodi Mills." Bobby rolled his eyes. "Sheriff Jodi Mills? Helped us with 'em zombies awhile back? Her doctor was big into eating ya liver instead of removing it? This ringin' any bells in that hard head of yours?"

"Oh, so its _Jodi_ now, is it." Dean said with a smirk. He looked down at his brother, who had his eyes closed but who Dean knew was still awake. "Awww Sammy, I think Bobby is sweet on someone."

"Shuddap, ya idjit. You wanna know what she said or not."

Dean squeezed Sam's shoulder, trying to gently massage away some of the tension and was surprised when his brother leaned into him, resting his head on his arm. "Yeah, Bobby, whatdaya got?"

"Okay, well, _Sheriff Mills_ got me in touch with a doctor that's a friend of a friend's cousin's brother, or some shit like that. Anyway, specializes in being discreet and keeping secrets. For once I think we have some good news."

Bobby looked back at the dark, empty stretch of road in front of them as he continued. "I explained everything, well hypothetically of course, and he agreed. In a nutshell, professional opinion is, if it's been this long and Sam's been stable, that meaning no throwin' up, breathin's been steady, speech is coherent, and he's had periods were he's lucid, well the doc doesn't think we have to worry about any brain swelling."

"But what about the seizure? What'd he say about that?" Dean asked.

"He said that seizures are always concerning, but once I told him he'd only had the one, and that was hours ago, he wasn't too worried. Said that was normal after getting clocked by a tire iron. If Sam starts having more, well, then we should start being concerned."

Dean wasn't entirely sure what to think about that. It sure sounded like good news, all wrapped up nice and pretty, and man, couldn't they use some of that about now; but he couldn't help but wonder if there was a ticking time bomb waiting beneath the pretty packaging.

Sam's hand came up and grabbed Dean's arm. "L'cifer," he whispered.

"Sonovabitch," Dean cursed, looking around the inside of the ambulance. An intense, furious thought flashed, wanting the bastard to be real, to be sitting with them right now, so he could show the bastard the meaning of real pain for hurting his brother so much.

"Sammy, listen to me," Dean's voice was soft but firm. "He's not-" A firm squeeze on his arm cut him off, years of unspoken communication between them understood immediately.

"No," Sam said stubbornly. "B'fore."

"Before? You mean on the way to the hospital?" Dean prompted. He could see the exhaustion on his brother's face and hard earned experience in the 'Art of reading Sam Winchester' told him that his little brother was going to push himself until he made sure that Dean understood.

"Was there…w'th us," Sam rasped out. "He said…he…he wasn't goin' anywhere. He wasn't leavin'…no matter what I did. I just….I tried…I wanted to tell him to…to shut up. Ya know? Just…shut the…"

Sam winced slightly as he worked himself up. Before Dean could warn him to calm down…cuz' really, one epic performance of the Swooning Sammy show was enough…Sam closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath.

"I guess it was all just too much," he concluded.

_Gee Einstein, ya think_? Dean thought. Out loud, he merely said, "Okay." He patted his brother's chest, reassuringly. He felt anything, but. "That's good."

Sam's eyes opened to mere slits. Dean saw the confusion in them and knew this time had nothing to do with Hell walls falling or traumatic head injuries.

Dean rolled his eyes at his brother. "Yeah well, ya know what I mean. Lesser of two evils."

Sam's forehead crinkled in bewilderment.

Dean groaned, running both hands through his hair. How screwed up had the situation gotten that Lucifer was the preferred problem?

"Lucifer phantasm's we can deal with," Dean said, eyes locking on his brother's so he knew he was being understood. "He's not real. Your brain exploding on the outside of your head….all kinds of bad we can't fix."

"Nice visual, D'n" Sam said, sarcasm evident even in the soft tone.

Dean grinned. "I do my best." His tone turned serious as he continued. "Sam, you know he's not real, right? He here now? "

"Yes…no…jus' us."

Sam traced along the bandage that wrapped around his left hand. "Builda' m'self a new wall…outta stone."

Some of the futility and despair that had been shadowing Dean for so long, waiting in the wings for him to make that final slip and pull him completely under lifted away at Sam's determined words. "That's my boy."

"Bobby, did that doc you talked to happen to mention anything we could do to make Sammy more comfortable. Pain meds perhaps?"

"Unfortunately, at the least, doc says we're probably dealing with a severe concussion, and we all know the rule - nothing for pain for at least twenty-four hours." Bobby glanced in the rearview mirror at the boys. "Sorry, Sam."

"Mmm, s'okay."

"There are some things we can do to speed healing up a bit, maybe make Sam a bit more comfortable. Doc says to start an intravenous line on him. It'll keep his blood pressure up, help stave off infection if one starts to try and settle in. He also said oxygen'll help, keeps the blood nice and healthy and flowin' the way it should.

Bobby caught Dean's eye's, "So, Dr. House, why don't you get started on that. Not like you haven't done any of it before. I'm gonna put some more miles between us and our new friends."

"Alright Sammy, I'm gonna get you set up real good."

"'kay."

Dean looked up at the cabinets and drawers surrounding them, grateful that they were all marked so he didn't have to waste time and energy rummaging around for what he was looking for. He took in Sam's pain lined features and closed the cabinet he had just opened, reaching instead for the draw beside him, and pulling out a small package.

'_First things first_,' he thought.

"We may not be able to give you any of the good stuff, doesn't mean we can't do something for that pain, right?" Dean took the ice packs he had taken from the draw and snapped them both to activate the crystals and then wrapped them each in a piece of gauze, not wanting the cold to shock his brother's system. "Medicine, Winchester style."

"Hey, this is gonna be a little cold on your skin, but we're gonna keep in on for a bit. It'll take the edge off the pain." He gently lifted his brother's head and slid the ice pack under his neck, and placed the other one on his forehead.

Even with warning, Sam startled as the cold hit his flushed, overheated skin, but the startling chill was quickly ignored as it gave way to soothing relief.

"Better?" Dean asked, a small smile tugging his lips as he watched the almost instant change on his little brother's face.

"Mmm Mhm."

Dean opened the cabinets next, pulling out the supplies he knew he would need, passing over the full facial oxygen mask, and opting for the less invasive nasal cannula instead. It had been years since he'd had to set one up, but the long buried knowledge came back quickly and in no time he had it up and running.

He kept up a running, one-sided conversation with Sam while he worked to hook him up to the oxygen and intravenous, wanting the familiar sound of his voice to keep him secure in the knowledge that he was safe as he started to fade off once again.

"How's the head feeling now, Sammy?" Dean asked quietly.

"Only feels like s'mone drove in one spike now, s'tead'f two."

"Must be the mate to the one that's currently taken up residence in my leg," Dean joked.

Concerned hazel eyes fought their way open and scrutinized his older brother. "Ya'll right?" Sam asked tiredly, fighting the tug of exhaustion that wanted to claim him.

"Yeah Sammy, I am. I'm not doing too bad."

Dean held his brother's gaze while he fell back asleep, both knowing that Dean was talking about more than his physical injuries.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note #1:** This chapter would have been done and posted days ago if my muse hadn't whispered in my ear that we needed a bit of hurtSam. And really, who amongst us doesn't enjoy that, right? So...I had no choice but to listen. Don't worry, nothing too serious. But instinct is everything when it comes to the Winchester boys watching each other's backs...and will override common sense every time.

There are at least two more chapters to this story, perhaps more. Three weeks is alot of time to play in sandbox, whose knows what kinds of ideas the muse will find.

**Author's Note #2: **Thanks again to Riathe Mai for editing and bailing me out with her terrific ideas and saving me from scraping the entire freakin' chapter when the boys decided they were just not going to cooperate, all the while juggling a thousand different things that are on her plate. Thanks a million.

**Author's Note #3: **Thanks again to all of you who have read, reviewed, alerted, and favorited this story, it means a lot. And as always, the same disclaimer's apply.

oooOOooo

He was a moment too late.

A moment he was hoping wouldn't happen—but one he should have been expecting.

Waiting. Ready. Prepared.

Because a moment is an eternity in the chaotic, anguish of hell.

Now all he could do was head it off. Hope he had reacted in time to prevent further agony or torment.

He heard the rustle of blankets, the fumbled scratch of metal as Sam's breathing sped up—and he cursed himself again for falling asleep and not hearing sooner that Sam was close to waking up—as he tried to bolt to a sitting position, struggling on the makeshift bed he was lying on and his bum leg in an attempt to get closer to his brother.

The stillness and quiet grabbed his attention and broke through the haze of dread that had enveloped him, and his alarm ratcheted down a notch. He quickly realized that what he was hearing wasn't the thrashings of a nightmare or the panicked, distressed breathing of the torturous flashbacks that he had feared.

It was the controlled, barely-restrained alarm of a hunt gone wrong; the need to get away, whatever the cost.

This he knew. This was something he could easily fix.

"Sam, I'm safe," Dean commanded, aware that the very first concern either of them had when waking up in an unfamiliar place, in pain, and seemingly alone was never for themself; but for the other.

"We're good," he assured his brother, wrapping his hand gently around Sam's wrist, preventing him from releasing the restraints holding him down. Dean brushed his thumb lightly back and forth across the back of Sam's hand in an effort to calm him and to nonchalantly stem the flow of blood from the torn out IV line.

Sam stilled instantly beneath his touch and confused, disoriented hazel eyes locked on his older brother's face.

"Dean." It wasn't a question, but a statement infused with pure relief.

Sam sounded like he had swallowed glass, and Dean's name had emerged on a raw whisper. Dean had never been so glad to hear it. However fractured his little brother's psyche was, he had already successfully crossed the two bridges that Dean always feared; his little brother was in the correct reality and—more importantly—had recognized Dean immediately.

"Everything's fine," Dean soothed, keeping up the slow, gentle movement on the back of Sam's hand. He kept his explanations simple; basic phrases that held the most meaning to the both of them, knowing that there was a very good chance that Sam wouldn't even remember what he was saying and he'd have to repeat himself again anyway. "We got away. We're all safe."

Sam's breath was still coming in short pants, and Dean watched as his gaze shifted away from him and darted around the unfamiliar vehicle, knowing he was taking in as much as he could; any hidden danger, every possible escape route.

"Relax, take it easy." He placed his hand on Sam's chest, feeling his heart hammering too fast beneath his fingers. Dean patted his brother's cheek with his other hand, drawing his attention back to him. "Hey, look at me. Right here. Slow, deep breaths."

Head injuries were always a bitch. As if the pain, dizziness, and nausea weren't enough fun, memory loss had to jump in and join the party. So Dean kept his eyes locked with his brother's, reassuring him without the need for words that they were all fine; giving him the time he needed to find and reconnect all the dots. Letting him know that big brother would be right beside him until he did.

Sam blinked his eyes a few times while he took a deep, shaky breath and let it out slowly. Dean could feel his brother's muscles gradually unwinding beneath his hand as his eyes cleared of their earlier confusion and awareness set back in.

"Yeah…okay…yeah, um, I remember. I'm…yeah, I'm good."

Relief surged through him. The agonizing, grief-stricken moments that Dean had feared hadn't happened; all it had taken were a few mere words and a gentle touch to bring his brother around and calm him.

Maybe they had caught a break after all, and Lady Luck had decided to hitch a ride with them.

Dean blew out his own breath as he patted Sam's chest. "You really need to get a new floor show, little brother," he snarked.

"I'll talk t' my agent," Sam rasped, watching as Dean silently cleaned the small amount of blood from the back of his hand and expertly inserted another intravenous line.

Sam's eyes once again roamed the interior of the van. "I realize I've been a bit…out of it," he gestured weakly around the van with his hand, "but I'm…positive this isn't an ambulance."

Dean slapped Sam's hand away from his face as he readjusted the nasal cannula. "Give the man a gold star."

"How 'bout a beer? "

"Water," Dean drawled, grabbing the bottle from beside him and giving it a shake. "Nectar of the Gods."

"That's _'does a body good'," _Sam stated gravelly. "An' not even close t' bein' the same thing."

"So true, little brother, so true, but…that's all you get." He leaned the bottle against the cast covering his leg as he considered his next move. "Alright, kiddo," he advised, "we're gonna do this real slow, alright? You ready?"

Sam huffed out a mirthless laugh. "Guess we'll see."

"Here we go then." Dean reached down towards the top of the gurney and extended the crank that had been folded underneath. Very slowly, he started to turn the handle clockwise, little by little raising the bed to a more upright position. Dean kept his eyes on Sam's face the entire time, carefully monitoring his brother for even the slightest change.

After a couple of turns, Dean stopped. He'd raised the bed only about ten degrees, but even that little bit had paled his brother considerably. "Sammy?"

"'m good. Lil' more," Sam murmured, his lips set in a tight line. He had his eyes squeezed shut and was breathing deeply through his nose.

Dean shook his head, "Stubborn bastard."

"Learned from th' best," Sam muttered.

"Oh sure, blame me for that one."

A few more turns and Dean pulled rank. He could see the fine sheen of sweat coating Sam's forehead as the change in elevation became too much. They had come across spooks with more color than his brother currently had.

"Alright, tough guy. Enough's enough."

"Yeah, I think ya might be right f'once," Sam wheezed out.

"Oh, for _once, _he says," Dean grumbled, but the concern in his eyes betrayed his feint at anger. "I'll let that slide this time, only cuz' your marbles are rolling around like a pinball machine and you can't remember the awesomeness that all my plans always are."

Sam's face relaxed a bit and he blinked his eyes open, the world around him no doubt returning to its proper axis and spinning at a rate that, while far from normal, Dean was sure was a bit more manageable.

"You mean like that awesome plan you came up with in Santa Fe," Sam said with a tired smirk. "Or Tucson, maybe? No. No, my personal favorite, Amarillo; _'We pull the pin, toss it, and then run like hell.'_"

"That was a spectacular explosion, wasn't it?" Dean beamed. "You know, we still have those landmines in dad's old storage locker. We should-"

"Dean." He knew from the scowl on Sam's face that his younger brother had been trying for stern admonishment, but the effect was lost on the tight lines of pain that creased his forehead and the rigid, unmoving posture that he held himself in.

"You have no sense of adventure," Dean complained lightheartedly, wishing there was more he could do ease his brother's pain. He held up the bottle of water. "You ready to try some of this?" he asked. "Your Harvey Fierstein impression is getting kinda old."

Sam's soft chuckle came out as a rough, scratchy cough, and Dean winced in sympathy at just how painful it sounded. "Yeah."

"Small sips," Dean said as he unscrewed the cap. "The last thing we need is for you to blow chunks all over the place."

"Nice Dean," Sam remarked. "Anybody ever mention your bedside manner leaves much to be desired?"

"Mindy," Dean said with a wide grin. "She said I was very desirable." He tipped his head in thought. "Or was it Cindy? Sandy, maybe? Candy…mhm…with the red hair. That's right, cuz' she had this cute little tattoo on her—"

"Dude." Sam held out his hand. "Too much information. Shut up or I _will _puke on you out of sheer spite alone."

"Killjoy." Dean held the bottle of water out for his brother, silently wrapping his hand around Sam's in support when trembling hands and skewed vision conspired against his attempt to grasp it on the first try.

Dean watched as his brother took a slow, tentative sip from the bottle. "Better?" He asked with a smile, as some of the deep lines of discomfort that had furrowed Sam's brow eased as the cool liquid soothed his irritated throat.

"Much," Sam said after clearing his throat, and Dean was happy to note that his younger brother's voice sounded a bit stronger. "So, um…New ride, huh?"

"Yeah. Bobby called in some markers," Dean explained as he recapped the water bottle and put it aside. "He said I didn't need to know the who or the how of it, and quite frankly, I'm surprisingly okay with that."

"They gave you morphine, didn't they?" Sam remarked.

"Concussed and still a bitch."

Sam laughed, and then winced. He closed his eyes, the skin pinching between his low, tense brows. Though clearly in pain, he managed a half-hearted, "Jerk."

Dean winced in sympathy. He'd had his fair share of concussions, so he knew how utterly unpleasant they could be. Even something as seemingly unstrenuous as talking could cause the relentless pounding and pressure to build inside you head until you swore your skull was going to explode.

In Sam's case, Dean still wasn't convinced that it wasn't a real threat. He gave Sam's shoulder a gentle squeeze by way of support and said nothing, giving Sam the chance to ride out the wave in silence.

When Sam's face relaxed and his breathing resumed a more level tempo, instead of that hitch-and-click act he'd had just minutes before; Dean picked up the conversation as though nothing had happened. "So one of Bobby's unnamed markers stashed us this van in some abandoned back lot and then crawled back un—"

"Watch it, boy," Bobby warned from the front the seat.

Dean spared him a quick glance and continued unfazed,"—derground."

"That's better."

"You wanna tell this story, Bobby?"

Bobby groused and mumbled under his breath, but fell silent. Dean smirked then looked back down at Sam. Sam's eyes were still closed, his face peaceful, but he was smiling, clearly enjoying the familiar banter. Dean couldn't help it. He gave Sam's shoulder another quick squeeze.

"Anyways, we ditched the ambulance; after stripping it, of course."

"Of course," Sam approved.

"And moved you, Sleeping Beauty, stretcher and all."

"Who moved him, Gimpy?" Bobby questioned.

"Fine, we only had one dwarf. That would be Grumpy. Happy?"

"That's two, jackass."

Sam craned open one eye and squinted at Dean. "Dude, you're crossing your Disney."

"You're such a girl, Samantha."

"Hey, girls dig that r'mantic, '_happily ever after' _stuff. Comes in handy."

"It's like I don't even know you sometimes."

Sam chuckled softly, his easy dimpled smile remaining as he settled himself the best he could on the gurney, and Dean made a mental note to make sure that smile made more appearances. "Close your eyes and get some sleep, Romeo."

"Where we goin' anyways?" Sam asked as his eyes slid closed.

Dean opened his mouth to answer, his lips moved but no sound came out as he suddenly realized that he had been riding for hours and had not once thought to ask where they were going. As much as he'd like to blame it on the morphine, he knew that it had nothing to do with it.

"Dean?"

Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and scrubbed his hands down his face. He had no clue as to their destination, and if that didn't tell him just how utterly wrecked he was….

"De'n?"

But Sam didn't need to know that…_wouldn't _know that if he got his way.

"D'n?"

It wasn't so much his name, but the slurred voice behind it that snapped Dean from his thoughts. He raised his head, and shot his arms out to catch his brother as he tumbled forward into his arms.

"Whoa! Whoa, Sam, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Whatever grit and determination his little brother possessed had obviously been used up in the simple act of unbuckling and sitting up—and how the hell he'd managed _that_—Dean grabbed him by the shoulders, slowing the motion as he pitched forward.

"Wh'ts wr'ng?" Sam's head had come to rest in the crook of his neck and Dean was just barely able to decipher the words that Sam had managed to force out around the harsh breathing and gritted teeth.

"Come on, Houdini, ya gotta lay back down." Dean ignored the question. Adjusting his grip on Sam's shoulders, he leaned them forward slightly, not wanting to jostle Sam any more than necessary.

And almost lost his balance when Sam gripped his shirt tighter and pushed against him in resistance.

"No." There was absolutely no need for Dean to decipher that word. It came out loud and clear and full of defiance.

"Pain-in-the-ass, pigheaded, gigantic little brothers," Dean mumbled through gritted teeth of his own as he worked to regain his balance so the two of them wouldn't end up on their asses. "Sam—"

"D'n," Sam's quiet voice stopped Dean. Only his brother was capable of inflecting so many different emotions into his name; worry and anxiousness being at the forefront, and Dean had no doubt whatsoever as to whom those emotions were regarding.

This is what they did, pushed themselves to the very ends of their endurance—and beyond—if they thought for even a moment that the other was in trouble. It shouldn't have surprised him that even as severely concussed as Sam was, a part of him was still aware, still watching his big brother's back and had caught his moment's hesitation.

And instinct had overridden common sense.

"'M sorry…f'…wareh'se…sc'd ya…," Sam rasped out. "Shou'da known n't you…'m sorry f 'sc'rin' ya." Sam breathed out a mirthless laugh. "Sc'd m'self…'m sorry..."

"No, don't you even..." Dean stopped as Sam worked his fingers tighter into his shirt and let out a frustrated breath.

"Y'…'kay?"

Even with the great effort it had taken Sam just to push out those two words, Dean heard the demand behind them. He grasped the back of Sam's neck; his hair was damp with sweat, and Dean could feel fine tremors running through his body from over-exertion.

"You're like a dog with a friggin' bone, you know that." Dean blew out an exasperated breath, knowing that once Sam got this way, short of him passing out—which was probably a given at this point—he wasn't going to let it drop.

His brother could read him like an open book; and even now, after all these months, Dean still had to remind himself that he had his little brother back. Sure, he had a few more quirks than usual—to add to the hundred or so he already had—but he was alive and whole…and Dean wouldn't deny him anything.

He never could.

Chick-flickery be damned…He was already well over his monthly limit anyways, what was one more.

"You scared the hell outta me, little brother," Dean admitted, his voice husky. "But it wasn't me I was scared for." He squeezed Sam's neck lightly as the still terrifying images from the warehouse came back. "It was you. I've been protecting you my whole life. But this…this I can't fight, man. I can't even see it. There's no fugly I can go and hunt down to make it better for you.

"This…," Dean held his brother tighter. "This right here is real. You and me. Stone number one. Remember that."

Dean carefully lifted Sam's head, more than a little concerned that he was supporting most of its weight. Blown pupils looked back at him through pain-filled squinted eyes, and Dean hissed out a breath, vowing to end the Leviathans and everybody else that had messed with his brother.

"I'm good, Sammy. We're good. We'll get through this together. None of this…not even close to being your fault, you hear me?" Sam made a low mumble in the back of his throat that Dean took as agreement and that he was still, somewhat, following the conversation. "So don't you go apologizing or I'll…well, I won't slap you upside the head that's for sure, 'cause I'm fairly certain that if I let go, it's gonna roll away."

"Pro'bly." Sam slurred out as what little strength he'd had gave out. He squeezed his eyes shut and a moan escaped his lips as his head slumped in Dean's hands.

Dean gripped the back of Sam's neck and rested his head once again on his shoulder. The minute tremors had given way to all out trembling as Sam's body fought with itself against over-exertion, pain and injury.

"All right. Ride it out, Sammy," Dean said as he squeezed the back of Sam's neck. He tried to keep him as still as possible, knowing that if the death-like grip Sam had on his shirt and the continued low moans that escaped through clenched teeth were anything to go by, then the world around his younger brother was spinning at a pretty fast clip.

"You gonna puke?" Dean asked softly.

"Mhm mm," Sam murmured.

Dean regretted what he had to do even before he did it, and his heart clenched at the thought of causing Sam any more pain. The kid was just about at the end of his endurance, and any movement would very likely send him toppling right over the edge; and he was the one that was going to push him.

Dean knew it had to get worse before it got better. Hell, it always did. It was the story of their lives, but it didn't bring any comfort or make him worry less.

"Sammy, I'm gonna lay you back down now, okay?" He hadn't expected an answer, and didn't receive one as he slipped his hand around Sam's fingers and loosened the grip he still had on his shirt.

"Here we go." He kept his voice gentle and soft, offering quiet reassurances as he lowered Sam back onto the gurney.

Sam's hands went immediately to his head, gripping it as the change in position increased the pressure pounding inside. Dean kept one hand securely on Sam's chest and slowly began to crank the handle to lay the gurney back down flat.

"D'n!" Sam's cry was indistinct and pained-filled, a call to his big brother to fix things and make the pain go away.

"Shh, Sammy. I know. I'm sorry."

Dean slowed the gurney's decent, hoping to lessen the impact, but it didn't seem to make any difference. Sam had the palms of his hands pressed against his forehead, his fingers clenched in his hair as he drove his head as far into the pillow as he could.

Dean kept up the litany, hoping his words offered his brother some measure of comfort, his gut wrenching at the sight of his brother in so much pain. "Shh. Breathe through it. Nice and slow. Almost there." Then, finally, he folded the crank back in place; and still he continued the steady flow of words. "There you go, Sammy. You did good. Just sleep, now. I'm right here. We're safe, Sam."

Sam's face went slack—asleep or unconscious, Dean wasn't sure and he almost didn't care as long as that terrible rictus of pain was gone from his brother's face. Sam's hands fell away from his head, and Dean caught them and carefully tucked them by Sam's side. He checked the IV—it was still intact—and then let his fingertips rest on the pulse point at Sam's wrist. The beat was steady, albeit a little fast, but strong.

Reassuring.

"He okay?" Bobby asked.

"For now," was the only answer Dean could give.

"He just needs to sleep, Dean," Bobby said reassuringly. "A bit of rest and he'll be right back to being same ole' sasquatch-sized, little brother who lives to drive you mad."

A ghost of a smile crossed Dean's face despite himself—yup, that about summed up his brother—he appreciated Bobby…well, just being Bobby. Dean knew he would be lost without his surrogate father's continued support and unique brand of gruff love.

"Twelve plus hours of healing under his belt, Bobby," Dean sighed frustratingly, "and he goes and pulls a dumb-ass stunt like that. He's back at the friggin' starting line again…hell, I don't think he's even on the board anymore."

"_Dumb-ass_ is the Winchester family's middle name, for pete's sake," Bobby grumbled, "and that brother of yours don't hold the record, you know that as well as I do. You know why he did it, Dean. You would'va done the same exact thing. It's a never ending circle with you two."

"Can't do it any other way, Bobby," Dean said quietly, knowing he was answering for Sam as well. Watching each other's backs, sacrifice…whatever you wanted to call it, it was ingrained to their very souls. They couldn't change that even if they wanted to. He looked up and caught Bobby gazing at him in the rearview mirror, his eyes a mixture of frustration and caring.

Bobby shook his head, and Dean knew that the old hunter had resigned himself long ago to the fact that there was no way he could change the two of them. "Well, anyways, it's probably just as well that Sam's out. We'll be hittin' the mountain soon and those roads leave much to be desired, let me tell ya."

Dean's eyebrow rose in puzzled curiosity. If he didn't know where they were going before, he sure as hell didn't have a clue now. He glanced down at Sam. His face was relaxed and pain free and Dean adjusted the blanket a bit higher around him. _Suppose I should find out the details behind that, huh? Consider what you just put yourself through and all,_ Dean thought.

"Ah, Bobby? Where exactly _are_ we headed anyways?"

"About as far from civilization as you can possibly get without leaving the damn planet," Bobby griped.

"Okay," Dean said slowly, digesting that information as he rested his elbows on his knees and let his hands hang loosely. "Care to elaborate for those of us who don't have a clue as to what you're talking about?"

"Scenic Whitefish, Montana. Pretty little place surrounded by nothing but mountains and lakes. Rufus has an old hunting cabin in the woods there." Bobby shrugged his shoulder, "Didn't think the old coot would mind us hidin' out there for awhile. Remote doesn't even begin to describe its location. Nothin's gonna even get close without us knowing it."

Bobby turned his head and looked back at Dean. "Why don't you lie down and get some rest awhile. We're still a few miles out, an' I'm gonna need your help getting Princess over there into the cabin. Last I checked, stretchers weren't made for off-roading."

Dean huffed out a laugh as he laid down, looking over once more at his brother. "Great. We're gonna be like the Weeble family doing the high wire act at the circus."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note**: So, this one is all _my_ fault. Kailene and I had every intention of taking the easy way out. I mean, if The Writers That Be can skip three whole weeks, we should be able to skip over the dilemma of getting a seriously concussed—and therefore horizontal—Sammy into that cabin. Right?

Apparently not. My muse has an evil sense of humor and likes to whisper little snippets of lines and dialogue in my ear. There, they take root and grow. Ironically, the little seed my muse planted didn't even make it into this chapter.

Sorry, it's taken so long to get this posted. Hopefully, it was worth the wait. A HUGE thank you to Kailene for letting me waylay her story and for helping me get it finished. Love you. Riathe Mai

Warnings for language and for gratuitous and unapologetic brotherly shmoop. What can I say? I've been watching season 4 on TNT and I _needed_ some brotherly shmoop.

**oooOOooo**

"This ain't gonna work, Bobby."

Dean leaned heavily against the open back door of the van, trying to keep his weight off his broken leg, and looked with dismay at the expanse of ground between where they'd had to park and the front door of Rufus' cabin. How the hell were they going to drag Sam over _that?_

_That_ was about 25 feet of rock, brambles, and uneven ground that Dean wasn't sure he was going to be able to cross with just one working leg, no crutches, and only Bobby to lean on. Hospital gurneys were awkward, un-maneuverable contraptions on smooth surfaces where the lack of friction beneath the wheels gave one some leeway in bullying the thing in the direction one needed to go. No amount of bullying was going to help them here. They'd be lucky if they didn't dump Sam in a heap on the ground: and wouldn't that just pay _done_ to their day?

"Damn! I should have kept those friggin' crutches," he complained, cursing the circumstances that had left him no choice but to toss them aside. At the time, it had been infinitely more important that he get into the ambulance as quickly as possible, than it was that he worry about what he was going to do when he needed to get back out.

"No use restirrin' that pot, son," Bobby said. "We cut it too damn close as it was. Another thirty seconds and those sticks wouldn'a done you any good, whatsoever."

Dean didn't need the reminder of how close it had been. _Too damn close_ was the understatement of the year. It didn't change the fact that their situation was all the more difficult because of it.

Unbidden and unwanted, Cas came to mind. There had been a time when, without any effort at all, he could have whisked Sam into the cabin stretcher and all. Now… The pain of that…_loss_ was quick and biting; and it didn't help their situation one bit.

'Yeah, well I'm pretty freakin' useless, now, without 'em!"

Bobby gave him a look, and Dean could almost hear the implied, _'You done whinin', now?'_ Dean threw his hands up in the air and shut his mouth.

When they'd first arrived, Bobby had gone into the cabin to take inventory and to get things ready. It made no sense to worry about moving Sam if they had no place to put him. He'd emerged not even twenty minutes later with a grimace on his face that didn't bode well for what awaited them inside; and had been walking back and forth ever since, scouting the best possible path to take to get Sam into the cabin. He'd been at that for a while and he didn't seem any closer to finding one than when they'd first pulled onto the lot.

It was now mid-afternoon. The sun, where it poked through the trees was bright. Almost too bright. Where Dean was standing was relatively shady, but there were several feet of ground between the van and the cabin that was in full sun. The glare was hurting his eyes, driving little spikes of discomfort into his brain. Closing his eyes offered a little relief but the glare still seeped through the thin membrane of his lids.

How much worse would it be for Sam?

"You know, assuming we can even get him halfway to where you're standing, right now; that sun is going to be like jabbing an ice pick into Sam's eyes."

Bobby looked up from where he'd crouched down to dig at something Dean couldn't see from his vantage point. He said nothing, though Dean could see the wheels working. After a moment, he shrugged. "We're just gonna have to blindfold him, then."

"Blindfold him," Dean repeated. He knew Bobby was right, but that didn't mean he liked the idea. "Oh I can just see it now. Tied down, blindfolded, while the bed he's riding on is bouncing all over the place…Shit, Bobby. If that doesn't spell trouble, it'll be a freakin' miracle; and in case you haven't noticed, we haven't had too many of those, lately."

"Well, it's that or we wait a few hours until the sun goes down a bit. Unless, of course, you got a better plan."

Dean snorted. "A better plan? Hell, I'd settle for _another_ plan."

Bobby pushed himself to his feet and brushed off his hands. "What, an' risk it bein' worse than the only one we got?"

"Oh, I think _this_ is the worst plan we've had in a long time."

"Well, if that ain't sayin' something; I don't know what is," Bobby drawled.

What it was saying was that the whole situation sucked, but Dean kept that to himself. He scrubbed his hand down his face. "I'm gonna wake him up," he decided. "I can't count on him sleeping through what's coming, and I can't have him waking up in the middle of it and not knowing what's going on."

He didn't wait for Bobby's reply. As Sam's big brother, he was declaring it his call. Pushing himself away from the door, Dean turned and hoisted himself up into the back of the van. Pain shot up his leg and he set his teeth against making a sound. He knew first-hand how easily sounds of pain and suffering could trigger flashbacks of Hell and the last thing he wanted to do was send Sam into another fit.

Eyes closed, he breathed through the wave of stabbing pain as it continued to build. A cold sweat broke out over his skin. He wondered if he could find his way to the bench beside Sam's stretcher before he passed out. A small part of him wondered if he really cared. At that exact moment, passing out seemed like a preferable alternative to that dagger's strike of pain.

Slowly, though, the pain eased to a more manageable throb and he opened his eyes.

Sam slept on, unmoving and unaware.

He had woken up only once since his escape attempt had knocked the stuffing out of him. He'd been more or less lucid—well, more less than more, but considering how he'd crashed, Dean had counted that as a victory. At least, when Sam had asked where they were going, Dean had been able to give him an answer. He'd also managed to get Sam to swallow a few sips of water before he'd fallen back asleep.

He hadn't stirred since, not even when the road beneath their vehicle had turned from smooth asphalt to rougher terrain. Although not nearly as jarring and treacherous as that 'service road' Bobby had taken to throw any would-be pursuers off their trail, the last several miles had jostled them around until Dean had felt every bump and bounce as a dull blade in his leg. He could only imagine how much worse it would have been for Sam had he been aware.

Dean lowered himself down on the bench and leaned forward. He hovered his hand above Sam's arm. God, he hated to do this. Sam was quiet and peaceful. His breathing was slow and steady, and there were no lines of distress on his face. There was a slight flush of color to Sam's skin, a subtle swath of pink painted across his cheekbones. The nasty bruise on the left side of his forehead seemed darker with the heat suffusing Sam's face.

Was the area more swollen, or was that just a trick of the meager light? Dean redirected his hand and lightly touched the side of Sam's face with the back of his knuckles. He was warm, but not alarmingly so. Once they got him settled, they'd address that. But first, they had to get him out of that van and into the cabin.

And, to do that, Dean was going to have to wake him up.

"Sam," he called softly, giving Sam's arm a gentle shake. Sam didn't so much as twitch. He shook him a little harder. "Sam, wake up."

The skin around Sam's eyes tightened and a small sound escaped his throat. It didn't sound distressful. It merely sounded like a deeper exhale rasping over dry and abused vocal cords. Dean called his name a third time and Sam turned his head towards the sound. His eyes cracked open.

"D'n?"

Dean couldn't help but smile in relief. "Hey, sleepy head. You ready to move to some better accommodations?"

"'m tired," Sam uttered and his eyes drifted closed.

"I know you are, Sammy, but I need you to wake up for a bit. Can you do that for me?"

"No," came Sam's reply, and yet he opened his eyes anyway. His eyes found Dean's and more or less held their focus. A small smile pulled the corner of his mouth. "Hey, D'n."

Dean's relief grew. Sam sounded calm. He sounded out of it, too; but calm and out of it was immeasurably better than panicked and out of it.

"Hey, Sam," Dean answered, matching Sam's nonchalant tone of voice. "We're at Rufus' cabin." Sam's brows pinched in confusion. Apparently, he didn't remember Dean telling him their destination. "We're gonna hole up here for a while. You know; lay low, rest up." _Lick our wounds._

"'kay."

"The thing is; we have to get you from here to there and…well, you and vertical didn't play so nice the last time you tried it. That means we're pushing and you're riding." Sam blinked dazedly leaving Dean to wonder if he was following the conversation at all. "You with me so far?"

Sam swallowed, "Yeah."

Dean wasn't so sure he believed him but he continued anyway. "Good. Now, ole Rufus wasn't much for landscaping, so it's gonna be a bit of a rough ride. We're gonna have to take it slow. You wouldn't want us dumping you on the ground, right?"

"I—I think d'rather ya didn't."

"Yeah, well I'd rather I didn't, too," Dean agreed giving Sam's arm a light squeeze. "What can I say? I'm awesome like that."

Sam smiled; a big, loopy grin that showed his dimples and crinkled his eyes. "Th' awesome…est."

It was absolutely embarrassing how happy that made Dean to hear his brother say that. Embarrassing and pathetic; and he'd deny it to his grave.

"Well, ain't that just tooth decayin'," Bobby drawled sarcastically from the back bumper of the van.

Dean wiped his own goofy grin off his face and glared back at Bobby. The older hunter was smirking, clearly enjoying Dean's discomfort.

"Oh, yeah, Bobby," Dean griped. "He's like one of those big ole boxes of chocolates that don't come with a road map, lately. Ya never know if you're gonna get…gooey or…cuckoo nuts!"

Bobby snorted.

"Coc'nuts suck," Sam mumbled, sounding like a disgruntled five-year-old. Even the expression on his face was petulant and childish. "'s like lick-rish. D'sgust'n."

"Blasphemy, Sammy."

Sam's eyes had drifted closed again, and it was clear that their window of opportunity was fading really fast.

"Come on, Sammy, don't fall asleep," Dean said a little more forcefully than he'd intended, and he cursed when Sam's eyes shot open in alarm. "It's okay," he quickly assured him. "We just need you to stay awake, okay?"

Sam nodded, blinking rapidly.

"Thatta, boy." Dean unhooked the IV bag from the twisted wire hanger above Sam's head. He debated unhooking the tube from Sam's arm, but decided to let it stay, as he needed the fluids. "Here, can you hold on to this?"

He put the half-full bag on Sam's chest and Sam slowly wrapped his right hand around it. Confused, Sam looked down at the bag, then back up at Dean with a sort of dazed intensity that had Dean's happy mood seeping out through the soles of his feet.

"Sam, I need you to listen to me, okay?" he said, resting one hand on Sam's arm and the other on the side of Sam's face. He leaned in closer. "You remember how it is when you get one of your killer headaches? How bright lights hurt your eyes?" Sam nodded. "Well, it's gonna be like that once we get you out of the van. The sun is real bright out there and you're gonna be looking right up into it the whole time."

Sam let out a shaky breath. "You—you're…" He swallowed tightly. "You'll need to cover them."

Dean shook his head in amazement. Leave it to Sam to once again skew the curve. "Only until we get you inside," he assured. "Then, you should be okay."

Clearly Sam didn't like the idea any more than Dean did, and Dean almost expected him to change his mind. Once again, Sam impressed him. "Do it," he said quickly.

Dean didn't ask him if he was sure. He gave Sam's arm another quick squeeze then released him. He caught the pillowcase Bobby tossed to him, rolled it into a thick strip, and carefully placed it over Sam's eyes. He slipped his hand under Sam's head and gently lifted it just enough to feed one end of the strip under him, then tied it off. Even that small change in elevation had Sam moaning in distress.

"You okay, Sam?"

"Yeah," he answered, his voice clipped and tense. "Just..."

"I know. Don't dump you on the ground."

As Dean had hoped, the corner of Sam's mouth twitched. "Right."

Dean managed to get out of the van without dumping _himself_ on the ground, though he muttered a few choice words through gritted teeth. There wasn't much he could do to help Bobby pull the stretcher out after him. Still he'd tried. Bobby speared him with a look, though, and Dean stepped out of the way. He could only stand off to the side and watch—and hold his breath—until the wheels cleared the edge of the van and popped down.

As soon as Sam was out, Dean hobbled over to him. Sam's left hand was wrapped around the safety rail, his knuckles white. The veins in his arm bulged with the strain. Fearing the IV in his arm, Dean carefully pried his brother's fingers off the bar and set it by his side. He kept his hand over Sam's and eventually he felt some of the tension ease.

"I—I'm...I'm good," Sam stammered. The racing pulse under Dean's fingers belied that assessment.

He looked at Bobby and shrugged. "You heard him, Alfred."

Sam made a small, chuffing sound. "Does that...make me...Batman, then?"

"Hardly," Dean teased. He patted Sam's forearm, his bicep, his shoulder; marking his labored progress around the end of the stretcher to stand at the head. There he put both hands on Sam's shoulders, near the crook of his neck. "More like Batgirl."

He met Bobby's gaze over the length of Sam's prone body and nodded. Giving Sam's shoulders one more squeeze, he released him and grabbed the bar at the head of the stretcher. Bobby did the same at the foot.

"Here we go," he said.

Bobby pulled. Dean pushed. The stretcher lurched forward about a foot and Dean hopped forward to meet it. Sam tensed, both hands seizing the safety rails on either side of the stretcher. The IV bag on his chest slid to the side and Dean grabbed it before it could fall to the ground.

"Come on. That wasn't so bad," he remarked facetiously, tucking the bag between the bottom sheet and the mattress. Giving Sam's shoulder another quick squeeze, he returned his hands to the bar and nodded to Bobby.

Push, pull. Lurch, hop. Push, pull. Lurch, hop.

It was slow going and exhausting. The ground was soft in places, the wheels were thin, and Sam was no light weight. When the wheels sunk into the ground they had to be lifted back out.

Bobby had the lion's share of the work. With only one leg weight-bearing, Dean had little to no leverage, and he was using what little he did have just to stay vertical. Bobby's face was deeply flushed with the exertion, ratcheting up Dean's concern.

For all that Sam had the easiest task of the three of them—just lie still and enjoy the ride—it was clear to Dean that he was not doing so well. He was breathing as hard as they were, his chest heaving with each shaky inhale. He had such a death grip on the rails; Dean wouldn't have been surprised it they ended up bent out of shape.

"Hey." He gave Sam's shoulder another quick squeeze, hoping to ease his rising panic. "Take it easy, _Barbara_. We're almost there."

Push, pull. Lurch, hop. Push, pull. Lurch, hop.

Dean's foot came down on something hard and it rolled out from underneath him. Without thinking, he tried to take his weight onto his right leg. His foot caught on a higher rut and he went sprawling forward. He made a desperate grab for the stretcher, but he was too slow. He went down with a yell.

"Dean!"

He heard Bobby yell out to him as he hit the ground. Hard. Pain shot up his leg, sharp and grinding. Excruciating. He cried out again as his vision grayed.

"Dean? What—Dean!"

He heard Sam call out his name, but the sound seem to come from far away. He couldn't answer him. He could hardly draw his breath, the pain was so bad.

"_Dean! Get these off!"_

He tried to curl around the injury, as though that would lessen it, as though that would stop that sharp, pulsing agony. He couldn't move.

"_Get off me! No! No! Let me—"_

"_Calm down or you're gonna tip the damn thing over."_

There were the sounds of a struggle, but they sounded strange; echoing as if he were lying in a deep tunnel. He knew he needed to get up. They needed his help. He pushed himself over onto his stomach. He tried to draw his legs under him. Pain speared his leg.

"Sonuvabitch!" he cried out and crashed back down. _Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._

"_Leave him alone, you bastard!"_

"_Balls! Not now. Come on, Sam. Snap out of it, boy!"_

"_Dean!"_

Dean forced himself to take a deep breath, to breathe through the pain. He needed to get up!

"_You gotta keep 'em covered, son. Ya hear me?"_

"_No!"_

There was the sound of impact; of flesh hitting flesh followed by a grunt of pain.

"Godammit, Sam!" Bobby snapped anger and desperation clear in his voice. "It's me, ya damn idjit!"

"_Wha—? B—Bobby? No. No. No. _No!"

That last cry choked off with a sob and Dean's eyes snapped open. He hadn't even realized he'd closed them. He was lying in a tangled sprawl, his right arm pinned under his body. His casted leg seemed nailed to the ground, heavy and trapped. The pain was sharp; a steady pulse that seemed to match his racing heartbeat. It was easing, though; becoming more and more manageable.

He could hear Sam right above him, his broken cries a continuous jumble of pleas, apologies, and Dean's name. Great gasping breaths punctuated the fractured words, each one coming quick on the heels of the one before.

"Sam, ya gotta calm down," Bobby was saying. Dean could hear the urgency in the older hunter's voice. "I can't go help your brother and take care o' you, too."

Dean flashed back to the two of them in the ambulance on the way to Sioux Falls General. Sam had gone from dazed to agitated in the blink of a glazed eye, until suddenly he'd started convulsing on the gurney.

He sounded far more upset now than he'd sounded then. How much longer could he carry on before he seized again?

"Sammy!" he called out, hoping the sound of his voice would penetrate Sam's hysteria. All that came out was a weak, croak of a sound. He took a deep breath and pushed the sound out with all he had. _"SAMMY, DON'T MOVE!"_

He heard a sharp gasp and then all went still above him.

Closing his eyes against a wave of dizziness, Dean drew in slow, deep breaths until he felt a little more clear. He opened his eyes. Slowly he rolled over onto his stomach and pushed himself up onto his hands. He managed to get his left leg underneath him and then pushed himself back onto the ball of his left foot.

His balance was precarious, his arms shaking from the strain. He shot his hand out and caught the leg of the gurney. He reached up with his other hand and grabbed the bar at the head of the gurney, and pulled himself up.

"Nice o' you t' join us," Bobby said gruffly.

The tone was annoyed and flustered, but the look on his face was pure relief. The older hunter stood at Sam's side. He had both of Sam's arms firmly in hand and it was all he could do to hold them still at Sam's side.

Sam was fighting him. His hands were fisted and his arms were straining against Bobby's hold. His whole body was rigid, his back arched. His head was tipped back, pressed into the pillow.

Dean stood frozen. It was the ambulance all over again, Sam seizing and Dean helpless to do anything about it.

"Don't just stand there," Bobby yelled.

Dean blinked, coming back to himself. Sam needed him. Without thinking, he put his hand on Sam's shoulder and said, "Sam, I'm—"

As soon as Dean's hand touched him, though, Sam yelled out. It was as if his breath had been trapped, and it suddenly tore out of him with his cry. He surged up in the bed, fighting the straps, fighting Bobby's hands pinning his to his side.

Dean caught him, forcing his shoulders down. "Sammy, don't," he shouted. "It's okay. You're safe. Calm down."

"No!" Sam sobbed. His head thrashed from side to side. "Not you."

The words were like a shot to the chest. Desperate to break through whatever Hell Sam was reliving, Dean threw his arm around Sam's chest and cupped his other hand over Sam's forehead. He lowered his head so his check rested against Sam's sweat-soaked head.

"Sammy, please," he said into Sam's ear. "You're okay. You're safe. I'm here. It's really me. I'm okay. You hear me, Sammy? I'm okay."

He didn't know how long he stood like that, hunched over his brother, whispering in his ear. He wasn't even sure what he was saying, specifically. He just kept talking, hoping the sound of his voice would draw Sam back. Eventually, Dean felt some of the tension leave Sam. His breathing was still too fast, but he was no longer struggling.

Still speaking that steady litany of assurances, he looked up at Bobby and gave him a subtle nod of his head. Reluctantly, Bobby released Sam's arms.

As soon as his hands were free, Sam's right hand flew up and grabbed hold of Dean's arm. His fingers fisted in the material of Dean's shirt, desperate; holding him tight as though he feared Dean would disappear if he let go.

"It's okay, Sammy. I gotcha. I gotcha. Sshh. Just calm down. It's okay."

Sam's heart pounded under Dean's hand. His breathing had worsened to short, sharp gasps.

"Just breathe slow. Come on. You know the drill. In through the nose and out through the mouth. Nice and slow, Sammy. That's right. In…and…out. "

Sam lifted his left hand seeking Dean's, and Dean grabbed it; letting his thumb press into the center of Sam's palm. "It's okay. There's no one here but us. I promise. It's just us."

"St—stone one?" Sam uttered weakly; like he still wasn't quite sure.

Dean stroked his thumb over the bandage, applying gentle pressure to the injury underneath. "Stone one, Sammy," he answered. "Don't you doubt it."

The last of the tension faded and Sam's desperate grip on Dean's sleeve grew lax. His breathing had slowed to a less worrying pace. Dean started to pull away, but Sam jerked. His hand tightened on Dean's sleeve again.

"Dean?"

Sam sounded like he had when he'd first woken up and Dean felt his heart sink.

"You back with us, Sammy?" Dean asked lightly. He felt anything but.

"Where are we?" Sam asked. Bobby uttered a curse under his breath.

Dean just sighed. He let his head drop lightly onto Sam's shoulder, suddenly too exhausted and discouraged to speak.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam?" he roused himself to reply.

"You okay?"

He couldn't help the small, bitter laugh. "Just tired."

"Where are we?" Sam asked again.

Dean lifted his head from Sam's shoulder and met Bobby's gaze. The concern he saw there was nearly his undoing. "We're at Rufus' cabin," he told him as though it was the first time he'd done so.

"Oh, yeah," Sam said hesitantly. There was a pause, and when he spoke again, it was with more conviction. "Yeah, I—I remember. I… Wait. Dude, did…did you…did you call me _Barbara?"_

**Author's Note**: The plan is to add more scenes to this arc as the ideas take us. There are three weeks to play with, after all; and we're pretty sure we weren't the only ones who felt deprived at the gap. Instead of stand-alone stories, we'll just continue to add them as chapters. We hope you will continue to follow along.


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